


Talking Through An Empty Skull

by Dragonfly



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Podfic Welcome, tag scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonfly/pseuds/Dragonfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Point Blank, Peter and Neal have a "talk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking Through An Empty Skull

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no rights to White Collar. This is fiction from a fan.  
> Spoilers: 2X09, Point Blank
> 
> Thank you, China Shop for the amazing beta!

“Well, I wasn’t there alone,” Neal said.

“Who?” Peter asked, with a quick glance at Diana. “The little guy?”

Neal nodded, scooping up his phone. It flashed in his hand, signaling a missed call. “This is you."

“We’ve been calling,” Diana said, stepping farther into the room. Neal dialed the phone and put it to his ear. He gave Peter a worried look as the call went to voicemail.

Peter thought fast. Someone was trying to eliminate anyone who might have figured out the music box code, and if they knew as much about Neal’s life as they seemed to, they would pick Mozzie as the real threat. Peter needed to find him and get him under protection (either task a daunting one); he needed to keep Neal safe as well, including from Neal's own stupidity; and he needed to consider the implications of Alex Hunter being back in the country. Even Fowler could be in danger from Tanaka’s murderer. They were all dancing to the music box’s tune.

“Moz, it’s me,” Neal was saying. “Someone shot Tanaka in his shop. He’s dead. Call. Me.”

Diana moved to Neal’s table and bent down to where a pile of rubble lay scattered beside it, as if a box or drawer had been upended – Neal was usually more of a neatnik. She rose smoothly, holding a couple of revolver bullets. Neal’s gaze flicked to them then darted away.

Peter pressed his lips together. He wanted to delay the inevitable talk with Neal about what he’d done, but he might not have that luxury. He needed Neal, and he needed Neal rational. “You don’t know where he is?” he asked.

Neal shook his head, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“What about his hideaways? Where does he live when he’s not with you?”

“I don’t know, Peter; it’s not my business.” Defensive now, and so keyed up Neal looked ready to bolt. He still gripped the scrap of paper Alex had handed him. Peter believed him; typical Mozzie, and Neal had no reason to keep what he knew from Peter.

He caught himself on that thought. Neal had no reason to keep information from him -- _that Peter knew of._ After the events of the afternoon, he might need to reconsider what Neal was willing to do.

“All right.” Peter plucked a notepad from the pile of stuff on the floor and wrote two addresses on it – the storage unit Haversham took him to once and “Tuesday.” He handed the paper to Diana. “Put an APB out on him with NYPD. Then check out these locations, and be careful,” he told her. Diana nodded and pocketed the addresses.

“Wait,” Neal said, and Diana paused. “Shouldn’t we all go?” He looked from Diana to Peter. “Peter, we have to find him.”

“It’s called police work, Neal. Diana checks out what leads we have while I interview our best source on the habits of the missing man.”

“You can interview me on the way.”

“You and I need to talk.” At that, Neal blanched and bit off his next protest. “Go on, Diana.” Diana left.

Peter paced the apartment, looking around. Neal watched him.

“So, what else can you tell me about Mozzie? What’s his real name?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know. Really.”

Again, Peter believed him. Unfortunately. “Who are his associates?”

“Associ—uh, me, Kate, Alex. I mean, we know the same people, but I don’t know who I’d call an associate.”

“No one he would go and hide with if he thought he was being hunted?”

“Not—no. Do you think he knows?” A flash of hope lit Neal’s blue eyes. “Let me call him again.”

Peter let him make the phone call. He poked the toe of his shoe through the items dumped near the table. Not an upended drawer, he decided. It looked more like someone had swept stuff off the table.

“Nothing,” Neal said, ending his call and giving Peter a worried look. “Maybe we should call hospitals.”

Peter shook his head. “We’ll visit them. Calling only works if he has ID on him.”

Neal nodded. “Which he doesn’t.” He reached for his jacket. “Let’s go.”

“Not so fast. You're still in the doghouse and only a few steps from the Big House.”

Neal straightened. “Peter, before you say anything—“

“Neal.”

“No, let me say this. Please.” Surprised, Peter yielded. “Whatever happens, Peter… “ Neal looked him straight in the eye, all earnestness. “What _ever_ happens, I want you to know, thank you for not letting me …” Neal’s nerve wavered, his gaze slipping away before he forced it back. “For stopping me. Thank you, really. I -- wouldn’t have anything left.”

It was a rather moving speech and Peter was duly moved. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now we have work to do.”

“Finding Moz?”

Peter shook his head. “If he’s at a hospital or –“ he caught himself before saying _at the morgue_ – “somewhere like that, there’s no hurry. We’ll find him. What I need is you, focused. We are up against someone with the clout to manipulate the FBI. I don’t know who to trust. I need you to be all right. And you’re a wreck. You’ve been through a lot, I know.”

Neal looked indignant. “I am not a wreck.”

Peter set his jaw. “You just threatened to shoot an unarmed man in the face. Attempted murder, Neal.” Neal flushed. He pulled out a chair at his empty table and sat. “That’s not you and I need you back,” Peter said. He paced in front of the table. His own mind was focused by urgency and adrenaline. He knew what he needed. “What’s upsetting you most, right now? I need to know so I can fix you.”

Neal looked up at him. “Fix me? You know, Peter, it’s a good thing you didn’t choose a career as a therapist.”

“Joke. Good. Now out with it.”

Neal sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “What do you want from me? It won’t be long before I’m back in prison, right?”

Peter stopped pacing. This was what he needed. He needed to extract each stress on Neal, hold it up, shake out the wrinkles and throw it away. Or at least fold it up neatly before putting it back. “You’re worried about that?” Some nastiness crept into his tone. “Good.” He couldn’t help himself. He took a calming breath. “No.”

“No?”

“What you did to Fowler won’t matter if he doesn’t press charges, which he won’t. It would expose him. Everything else you did comes under my jurisdiction. The one problem might be the museum. I’ll have to sweet talk them into accepting payment for damages instead of filing a criminal complaint. Can you pay for the damage you did? I don’t want details. Yes or no.”

“Yes.” Neal already looked relieved.

“Then you’re not going back to prison at the moment. Next thing making you crazy.”

Neal blinked. “Next? What are you talking about?”

Peter leaned on the table, looming. “Attempted murder, Neal. You even took a shot.” Neal winced. “Personally, I think it was to get his attention, since I’ve seen you shoot. But it’s still attempted murder and I’m not going anywhere with you until I’m sure you’re not going to pull something like that again. What were you thinking?” When Neal just stared at him, Peter added, “It’s not a rhetorical question.”

Neal dropped his gaze to his hands. “What do you think I was thinking? I thought he killed Kate. I wanted to know why, I wanted him to know what it felt like –“ He looked up. “I still hate him, Peter.”

“I figured.” This one, Peter couldn’t fix. At least he’d gotten Neal to talk about it, a little. “Will you be able to work with him?”

“Work with him?” Neal’s mouth fell open. “Work with him? Peter, I don’t care that his wife was murdered and he was blackmailed. Maybe I should, but I don’t. He got Kate killed.” Neal was out of his chair; now _he_ paced, running his hands through his hair. Peter watched him, still leaning on the table.

“He went after me, through her. If he had left us alone, in three months I would have been out of prison and living the life I’ve always wanted with the woman I loved more than anything in the world. She’s dead because of him.” Peter was pretty sure he saw Neal blink back tears. “I’ve lost everything because of him. I might have lost Mozzie because of him. I hate his guts.”

That was what Peter needed to hear. Honest pain and anger. “I take it that’s a no, then.”

“Yeah, that’s a no. And you know what else?” Neal hesitated for a bare second, glancing Peter's way, before continuing in a heedless rush. “Why didn’t you help me? I told you Kate was in trouble. I told you she didn’t dump me, but you wouldn’t hear it. I couldn’t tell you what I found out because you made it a condition of my parole that I not look for her! Why did you do that?” Neal ceased pacing long enough to hurl the question directly at Peter.

Pissed, Peter hurled back, “Because I knew you only offered me the anklet deal so you could look for her. I know you, Neal.”

“And I know her! You don’t. I knew she didn’t dump me, I knew she was in trouble, but you only saw a poor deluded lover, refusing to admit to reality. I needed your help. She needed your help! And now that she’s dead you’re to blame as much as Fowler.” Neal whirled to face the balcony, so Peter had a chance to get his kneejerk defensiveness under control.

They were both silent, Peter scowling at Neal’s back while Neal glared out at Manhattan. _Well, Peter told himself, I wanted to crack Neal open and let the feelings out. This is what I get. I wonder how long he’s been keeping_ that _bottled up._

Peter kept his tone level. “Neal, she wasn’t who you think she was.”

Still looking away, Neal answered in as bitter a voice as Peter had ever heard from him. “You don’t get to tell me that, Peter. You didn’t know her.”

 _I know she pulled a gun on me for no reason at all. I know she could have asked for my help, but all she did was warn me to stay away. I know she was willing to blow up an airplane in flight and kill its pilots in order to cover her tracks._

 _I know you’ve been hiding a hurt the size of Ground Zero since she died._

“No, I didn’t,” he said, quietly. It was true, after all. He didn’t know her, and, while he had his suspicions, he also couldn’t say what their relationship had truly been. And trying to persuade Neal that the woman he idolized had never deserved it was a poor approach. “And I’m sorry she died, Neal. I really am.” He let that statement hang in the air. After a moment, Neal half-turned back to him. “But if we’re going to find the man who did it, I need you thinking straight. I can’t risk you going off the rails again.”

Slowly, Neal returned to the table, not meeting Peter’s gaze. He fingered the collar of his coat jacket, where it hung on the back of a chair. Peter wasn’t expecting an apology, which was just as well, because Neal didn’t answer him.

Peter spoke without thinking. “I wish I knew something that would make it hurt less.”

Neal’s smile was small, but welcome. “You can’t fix everything, Peter.” He looked around at his apartment, taking a deep breath. “I thought before that this was an interrogation,” he said, “but you’re actually trying to be comforting, aren’t you?”

Peter smiled, not entirely comfortable with that interpretation, but not willing to argue the point. “What else?” he asked and this time Neal understood him.

“Mozzie. Please. I got him into this. I have to know.” He lifted the jacket a few inches from the back of the chair, and waited for Peter’s response.

Peter nodded at the jacket. “All right. Lennox Hill and St. Luke’s are closest.”

Neal had the jacket on with sleight-of-hand speed. “One more thing,” Neal said, as Peter moved to the door.

“What?”

“I didn’t mean it. What I said.”

“Yeah you did. C’mon, let’s go find him.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> The title, "Talking Through An Empty Skull," is from something Allen Ginsberg said:
> 
>  _I think it was when I ran into Kerouac and Burroughs - when I was 17 - that I realized I was talking through an empty skull... I wasn't thinking my own thoughts or saying my own thoughts._


End file.
